


with your eyes turned skyward

by tattooedgreenhouse



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bly is smitten and he doesn't even know who Aayla is, Chance Meetings, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Order 66 Didn't Happen (Star Wars), some drunk asshole makes a crack about clones and Aayla makes her opinions very clear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28539204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattooedgreenhouse/pseuds/tattooedgreenhouse
Summary: Bly steps into the bar and the low hum of conversation buzzes somewhere near his sternum. It’s tucked out of the way, not the kind of place to care who comes walking through the door. His brothers used to tell stories about places closer to the Core, shiny and neat and scrupulous, that would turn clones away before they could even get close. He’s only heard the stories, though, most of his time during the war was spent in the Outer Rim.But the war is over now, and Bly’s only goal is to visit as many planets as he can.___________________Bly was never assigned to the 327th, but in a bar in the Mid Rim he meets the most beautiful twi'lek woman he's ever seen.
Relationships: CC-5052 | Bly/Aayla Secura
Comments: 9
Kudos: 50





	with your eyes turned skyward

Bly steps into the bar and the low hum of conversation buzzes somewhere near his sternum. It’s tucked out of the way, not the kind of place to care who comes walking through the door. His brothers used to tell stories about places closer to the Core, shiny and neat and scrupulous, that would turn clones away before they could even get close. He’s only heard the stories, though, most of his time during the war was spent in the Outer Rim.

But the war is over now, and Bly’s only goal is to visit as many planets as he can.

He wants to visit planets he’s only heard about from his _vode_ and to make new memories of Coruscant, overshadowing the old, blurry ones of barracks and terrible beer.

Right now he’s in a bar with no name in the depths of Hosk Station. The orbiting base is layers on top of layers, and the shipyards and mechanic’s bays below the surface are always looking for an extra pair of hands. They don’t much care where the help comes from and Bly doesn’t have to explain why his is the face of a galaxy-wide war.

The bar is tucked between two larger buildings, and even with the harsh tubes of neon lining the top of the window, the steam from a nearby vent almost completely obscures it from view. The light wreathes the bar in a hazy glow, spilling onto the damp duracrete below. _Cheap drinks, no crowds_ , one of his coworkers had said, before Bly even asked. His gaze skims the bottles organized in haphazard rows behind the bar.

He shifts his shoulders habitually while fishing a few credits out of his pocket and considering his options. The lightness he feels is physical—the coat he salvaged hasn’t yet been worn into his body and he is unused to the crinkling feel of loose fabric around his elbows. Even then it’s nothing compared to the weight of the plastoid that once covered every inch of him.

He never carries much. These days all that he has is tucked into a single canvas bag hidden in the ceiling of his little rented room a few levels down. Soon enough he’ll bring it out again and check the travel boards to see where the handful of credits he’s earned will get him next.

But it’s not a kind of life he minds. He has a choice now: where to go, what to see, what to experience.

It’s a kind of life that had always seemed just out of his grasp during the war. He and his brothers were created, grown, for the sole purpose of fighting and dying for the Republic. What kind of life existed for them when that was done? There were a handful of _vode_ who had deserted to live their lives out from under the thumb of the GAR but, though Bly had never condemned them for it, he’d never felt strongly enough, never had anything to leave for, and so he’d stayed and fought and followed orders.

The bright, empty horizon that met him at the end of the war was entirely too much to take at first. A group of sympathetic senators had fought long and hard to make them citizens and Bly didn’t know what to do with himself in the silence that remained.

So here he is. In a bar somewhere along his meandering route through the galaxy.

He’ll take whatever he can, and right now that’s a slightly sticky synthwood bartop and an uncomfortable stool. The various bottles and jugs stare accusingly out at him from the far wall.

Behind the bar is the oldest Duros woman he has ever seen. Her skin is crepe-like and lined but her rheumy red eyes find him easily. She gestures to the shelves behind her and Bly points at one of the cheap liquors he knows won’t put a dent in his earnings or leave him with too much of a headache in the morning.

Even the bottles on the bottom shelf—never dusty, too many travelers just like him come through looking for anything that burns—are nothing compared to engine-room moonshine.

After a moment the bartender slides him a glass with a few inches a frothy green liquid at the bottom and he nods his thanks. Bly takes a sip and turns his head subtly, taking in the rest of the bar. Though the place isn’t busy by any means, there are still a good number of patrons milling between the dimly-lit tables. He knows there’s a GAR platoon stationed nearby leading a relief effort and he is surprised that he does not see any familiar faces in the crowd.

The taste of his drink suddenly registers after a couple sips, and he brings it to his lips again to confirm the surprising thought that it actually isn’t half bad.

Soft footfalls to his left make him turn and he stills in his chair when the most beautiful twi’lek woman he has ever seen climbs onto one of the stools next to him. Her skin is the same dusty blue as a sky just after dusk and her well-worn spacer boots just barely brush the floor. The harness over her lekku is made from bands of synthleather that match the jacket thrown over her shoulders. Her head tilts subtly in a way that tells Bly his presence has been noted, but she only points questioningly at one of the bottles on a shelf midway up the wall. He turns away again as the bartender pours out a glass of something red enough to be blood.

Bly goes back to studying the room. He counts nine concealed blasters, three vibroblades, an electrowhip, and a sniper rifle that’s older than he is. The Devaronian in the corner is cheating at sabbac and he spots a Theelin woman handing a small package to her neighbor. Bly is fairly sure it contains some amount of Spice.

There’s choked cough behind him and he turns to see the twi’lek woman staring into her glass with an expression so thunderous Bly feels certain it should be able to turn the liquid to steam, and he cannot help the bemused laugh that bubbles up from his chest. The way her entire face scrunches up in disgust is the most entertaining thing he’s seen in days. She looks over at the noise— _force, her eyes are beautiful too_ —and he tries to think of a way to explain that he was not laughing at her expense, but then her expression softens like she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

Her lekku sway as she looks back down at her drink and then up to him.

“It isn’t very good,” she says simply.

Bly laughs again helplessly. She is smiling now and it’s all he can do to keep the thoughts of praise and worship from spilling out of his mouth. She is beautiful—graceful even as she stays perfectly still. Instead, he tilts his own glass in the direction of hers. “You would hate Novanian Grog, then.”

She taps a blue finger against her sleeve as though remembering something.

“I’ve been to Basteel before, but I never had the occasion to sample their drinks.”

“ _Don’t._ ” Bly says emphatically, and she sets her glass down on the sticky synthwood.

“I will take your word for it.”

Bly watches her run an eye over him in a practiced gesture and, apparently seeing nothing alarming even as it causes a tongue of heat to curl up beneath his collar, she tilts her head in the direction of the bar shelves.

“What other advice do you have for me?”

Bly holds back the comment that sits on his tongue—about how it should be the other way around and he would follow her advice without question—and considers the bottles lining the wall. The bartender is not looking at either of them.

“If you find yourself on Saleucami, you should take the time to try their koja-rum, it’s better than most people give it credit for even if it does look like engine grease.”

She nods seriously, considering it.

The way that she’s turned towards him means he can see her exposed midriff beneath her cropped shirt. Bly takes another lurching sip of his drink when he sees her muscles shift in the low light of the bar.

“Even so, Saleucami can be particularly beautiful, don’t you think?”

Memories flood into Bly’s mind, unbidden—mud and dust and blood and the hollow, bombed-out shells of homes. There was never much time for beauty during the war, especially on the worlds where they had been sent to fight the relentless durasteel flood of Separatist droids. Every now and again there was a quiet morning where he could lose himself in the stillness, and that was the only kind of beauty he had grown to savor.

Looking at this woman sitting next to him, though, he ponders the entirely different kind of pull that tugs at his ribs.

They talk for a while before Bly realizes she has not asked about the obvious fact that he is a clone. He is used to people bluntly stating their curiosity (or barely-concealed disgust) as soon as they meet, and her lack of interest is perplexing. However, there is none of the latent tension in her attitude that he would expect if she was simply uncomfortable with his history.

The deliberately relaxed set of her shoulders tells him she has some form of training, as does the carefully hidden blaster beneath her jacket. Bly knows there are several cells of freedom fighters based on Ryloth that fought beside the clones, maybe she’s from one of them. Perhaps his face is simply familiar to her.

In any case, Bly does not yet know her name, and during a pause in the conversation he is suddenly seized with the urge to hear it.

He holds out his hand and lets it hang in the air between them. “Bly.”

The name should not feel heavy on his tongue. The war has been over long enough for him to get used to using it and not his birth number, but in front of her he feels an intense desire to stand at attention and give her all that is left of his loyalty.

She takes his hand and grasps it firmly. “Aayla.”

He feels more callouses beneath his fingers than he would have expected, but then her hand is gone before he can slot them into a specific occupation.

“Have you been to many planets solely to try their drinks?”

She laughs and Bly feels it beating like bird’s wings inside his chest.

“Not generally, no. But sometimes it’s the best way to round out the day.”

He cannot argue with her. It is an emotion he is well familiar with after campaigns ended in celebration or, more commonly, mourning.

A noise further down the bar catches Bly’s attention and both he and Aayla turn subtly to see what it is. There is a human man attempting to walk back to his table carrying several bottles in one hand, but his clear drunkenness means his route is slow and staggering.

He stumbles behind Aayla and throws out a hand to grab her stool. When he looks up and sees her sitting there, his glassy eyes turn lecherous. She does not outwardly react to his attention but Bly watches her fingernails dig tiny grooves into the synthwood bar.

The man’s eyes lose focus abruptly, like he’s remembered something he’s forgotten, and Bly doesn’t complain when he straightens and walks back to his table in a daze.

Bly turns back to Aayla and watches the tension fall out of her shoulders as the man sits back down without acknowledging them. She looks back at Bly and her attention is warm and steady and he opens his mouth to fill the silence.

“I’ve only made it into the Core once or twice, but hopefully I’ll get back there some day. I’d like to see Alderaan at least once.”

Something in her face is suddenly sad as she runs a thumb over the rim of her glass. Bly wants more than anything to wipe that expression away, and he leans forward to lay a gentle hand on the sleeve of her jacket, drawing those amber eyes back to him.

“Do you have any advice for _me_? What other beautiful planets would you recommend?”

She stares at the hand on her arm for a second and Bly thinks he may have gone too far, but Aayla only traces a finger delicately over his knuckles and gives him a small smile.

“The hills outside Hanna City on Chandrila are lovely, especially during the warm season.”

He’s trying hard to focus on something other than the feel of her skin against his and he bites his tongue.

“I’ll be sure to visit someday.” He tightens his grip on her arm briefly and then withdraws his hand, wrapping it back around his glass. Her smile is more genuine now and she turns to catch the bartender’s attention. Soon she has a matching glass of green liquor and they trade more stories about the war.

Bly mentions a few of his brothers and she doesn’t even bat an eye, later telling him about the time she had to tame a jungle rancor on Felicia, and the way she vividly describes its stench has him choking on the last of his drink.

Aayla’s eyes are sparkling with laughter when their little bubble of warmth is punctured again.

The man from before stands on shaky legs and makes his way back towards the bar, putting a hand out to steady himself on a nearby chair. He gets closer and his eyes fall on Aayla again with something far more predatory than before. Bly slides off his stool and stands quietly.

The human is too close now and Bly can see him sneering drunkenly. He is ready to take him outside if he moves towards Aayla again, but she lays a firm hand on his chest and he feels himself inexplicably backing down.

“It’s alright.” Her voice is low enough that only he can hear and the expression on her face is soft but determined. Bly does not drop the tense set of his shoulders or step away from her side, but he doesn’t make any move to grab the man.

The spot in the middle of his chest burns where her palm is pressed so close to his skin.

The man is still leering but Aayla does not engage him other than to glare steadily in his direction. She makes a move that puts her body between him and Bly, and something inside his chest lurches with the motion.

The drunk man seems to take a moment to consider Bly and the way they are unintentionally curled around each other. His smile is something contemptuous and sickly and Bly can see his lips curling.

“You can do better than this _clone_ , sweetheart. I bet you’d prefer a _real_ man over some flesh-droid.”

Bly tenses and he knows Aayla can feel it, the pressure of her hand increases.

“You aren’t worth _half_ of Bly.”

The sheer venom in her voice takes them both by surprise, and before Bly can argue she fishes enough credits out of her coat pocket to pay for both of them and slides the chips towards the bartender. Aayla turns back and the smile she gives him is brighter than a binary star.

She leans in close, completely ignoring the drunken man now, and slides her hand up like she is brushing something off his shoulder. “I think it’s time for us to go, my dear.”

Bly knows his face must be burning, and the way her accent caresses the sound of his name, even in anger, is enough to send heat skating along his spine. But a brief glance at the drunk man now gaping at them has him nodding seriously even as he smiles.

“I think you’re right, darling.”

His heart trips a little in his chest when he sees a faint purple flush color her cheeks, but he sticks to his role and holds out one arm for her to hold. The heat where their elbows are linked is muted by layers of fabric, but it is there nonetheless.

They stumble out of the bar, arm in arm and holding back laughter as soon as the door closes. Aayla pulls them towards an alley and her giggle bubbles infectiously into the air.

The rough wall of the alley catches on his jacket and Aayla is pressed against him, laughing. His arm hovers around her, not quite applying pressure but shielding her from the light of the street.

She leans away slightly and his arm drops away. The smile on her face softens and she brings a hand up to place it gently against the side of his neck. Bly notes the intimacy of their situation and wonders why she has not yet pulled away, but her gentle smile and the touch of her skin against his keeps him pinned in place.

Aayla’s finger is skating over the sharp curve of the tattoo that peeks above his collar and Bly is finding it hard to think about anything else. Her touch is cool but her voice is warm as it sinks beneath his skin.

“Where do you think your travels will take you next?”

It takes all of his concentration to form a coherent response. Aayla is entirely too close and too beautiful and the words “ _wherever you’ll be_ ” press insistently against the back of his teeth.

“I don’t know. Wherever I can get a shuttle for a few dozen credits.”

He is close enough to see the pale spots on her lekku and his fingers itch with the urge to trace them. The thought sears through him, hot and burning.

His hands clench at his sides as he attempts to hold on to the last shreds of sanity--

“May I kiss you, Bly?”

\--and fails miserably.

Rather than unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth in order to form a response, he nods. Despite the heat licking through his veins, Bly had no plans to push for anything other than her proximity and a handful of stolen moments. The fact that she is asking for more has him dazed.

She moves slowly, taking a kiss so gentle it makes him feel like he is made of porcelain and not something of muscle and bone, trained to hurt.

Her lips are cool and soft and the memories of all his rushed encounters over the years fade away beneath her touch. She pulls away to look him in the eye and he is just the right side of breathless even though they haven’t moved an inch.

Aayla leans in and kisses him with more intent than she had before, and the slant of her lips against his is enough to prompt Bly into movement. His fingers unclench and he brings them up to her sides, but at the last minute she shifts and his fingertips meet skin instead of fabric. Bly’s first instinct is to pull back as if burned but the noise that Aayla makes in the back of her throat has him pressing closer instead.

Her skin is smooth and there’s brief stab of regret for the roughness of his hands, but then his fingers brush a band of scar tissue along her ribs and his grip tightens. Aayla’s fingernails scrape along his buzzed hair and he feels like melting into the pavement. Her little finger hooks under the collar of his shirt at the base of his neck and he has to pull away to breathe.

The lining of her coat brushes his knuckles where his palms are flat against her back and he is pressed dizzyingly between her body and the wall of the alley. One of her lekku has wrapped itself around his arm and the weight of it is both grounding and terrifying.

“I’m headed to Denon after this.”

It takes Bly a few, fuzzy moments to understand the meaning of her words, but when he does his gaze is steady.

“…if you were looking for somewhere to go next.”

His hands are still on her skin, pressed into the line of her spine and she hasn’t pulled away. Bly takes a deep breath and manages a grin between the thudding heartbeats.

“I can see what shuttles are headed that way.”

Her tentative smile steals the breath from his lungs and he can easily forget about the roughness of the wall or the dampness of the duracrete beneath his boots if he can bask in that look for a few more moments.

She leans in to kiss him one last time, and something settles in his chest. The compass needle beneath his ribs that has been spinning aimlessly since the war ended has found its heading, and he will go where it pulls him. Aayla’s skin drags against his palms as she moves away but he does not try to pull her back. Bly knows where she is going, and he knows that he will follow in her wake.

When he opens his eyes again, she is gone.

Bly steps away from the wall and shifts his shoulders in his too-new coat. The glow of neon from the bar spills softly into the alley from the street beyond. Tomorrow he will take his bag from its hiding place and count his credits in his little rented room.

Then, he will head for Denon.

**Author's Note:**

> In this AU I don't think Bly would have his facial tattoos (because in my head he totally got them as a symbol of his devotion to the 327th and Aayla) but he still has the full body tattoos that the fandom has given him. [thatfunkyopossum](https://thatfunkyopossum.tumblr.com) has some of my favorite takes on Bly's tattoos [here](https://thatfunkyopossum.tumblr.com/post/620500453462097920/have-a-bly-doodle-bc-im-an-utterly-useless-queer) and [here](https://thatfunkyopossum.tumblr.com/post/623583968740163585/which-of-you-idiots-took-my-blacks-the-people).
> 
> Also, here's [one](https://ceratolith-archive.tumblr.com/post/625104950335242240/yeah-obi-wan-luminara-and-quinlan-are-a-good-trio) with Aayla that I love, because she absolutely has scars from throwing herself headfirst into danger.
> 
> hmu on tumblr at [gershwyndl](https://gershwyndl.tumblr.com) if you want to say hi


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